


Fear Clinic

by MarcusBlues16



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5383643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarcusBlues16/pseuds/MarcusBlues16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fear is responsible for one of the most archaic reactions that human’s have: fight or flight. It affects them on the most primal of levels. It controls them and rules their lives. Some fears hold premise, others are irrational. However, no matter how they are perceived they have the same reactive downfall."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear Clinic

With Dedication to:

Wes Craven

2 August, 1939 - 30 August, 2015

Rest well our sweet prince of darkness, master of our dreams, and bringer of fear. 

 

Fear: (n) An unpleasant emotional state that is brought on by psychological and physiological recognition of a real or imaginary threat or danger.  
_____________________________________________________

“Fear is responsible for one of the most archaic reactions that human’s have: fight or flight. It affects them on the most primal of levels. It controls them and rules their lives. Some fears hold premise, others are irrational. However, no matter how they are perceived they have the same reactive downfall.  
There was a question posed to me, one that I became determined to find an answer for. The question was: “Is it possible to create a manifestation of fear so strong, that an individual cannot tell if that manifestation is real or a figment of the imagination?”. Certainly the notion seems absolutely ridiculous, like something out of a bad horror movie. However, I did not believe so.” The voice echoed around the courtroom; which, my lovies, is where our scene opens. The reddened eyes of families and children staring forward, accusing the man behind the podium. His face was stoic, eyes dry and appearance unassuming to those that set eyes upon him for the first time.

“What did you believe?” The Prosecutor's voice questioned, ticking up ever so slightly, breath hitching in his throat. He had never had a case involving the atrocities that he had seen, that he had read about. The man before him was capable of evil, and he acted as though he had done nothing wrong. As though there was no fault in his actions and what he had done was justified. The Prosecutor, we shall call him R for the time being, felt the ants crawl beneath his skin and march up his throat, bringing bile with them; but he swallowed them down. This man is not unordinary, but he is good at his profession. The look that is etched into his face is one of practiced calm as he makes eye contact with the accused across from him.

“I believed that it WAS possible. After all, there had been cases over the span of many years documenting the death of individuals in their sleep; deaths that were linked to extreme night terrors. 230 cases between the years of 1982 and 1990, to be exact. Perfectly healthy men dying in their sleep. Granted many of these cases were documented in Hmong, the idea of such death occurring in America are not unrealistic.” This man, for whom we shall call him G; at this moment his actual name is unimportant. He is a man of science, but the theories of science and their practical application were not something that he always agreed with.

That being said, G is also highly unremarkable, though he is far from a stupid man. I know that he can see me, that he can feel my presence; the constant ghost beside him. But fear not children, you are quite safe. After all, you are only hearing about these events after the fact, now as they are happening; though I find it easier to say them as I know them to have happened. In the same tense as though they are happening now. It helps to keep everything in a straight line. Turing a white gaze to the Prosecutor, I heard him ask the one question that required the most explanation. It is, my children, the answer to this very question will take our story through to its ending.

“In your own words, what exactly happened?”

“I suggest you sit. For the prosecution to understand what exactly it was that happened, you all need to understand what happened just before and just after, and everything in between.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

G is, as I have explained, a man of science, and therefore; as I see it, unfit to tell this story as it should be told. As it needs to be told. My humble audience, while he will spin and tell one story to the Jury, and it shall be half at best, I will tell it in it’s whole form. I believe that the best place to start would be with the initial interaction itself. That interaction between G and his questioner, who I will simply call the Inquisitor; he plays very little of a role.

“Do you believe that people could experience fear so surrealy, that it could cause their death? Even in sleep?” The Inquisitor is a rail of a man, nothing more than a shadow that seems to echo his importance in life; which is very little. G’s eyes widened noticeably, as though someone had just granted him the knowledge of a thousand men. The smile that spreads across his face holds no malice, but concealed cruelty. You see, my darling reader, this is not the first time such a question has been posed to him; though it was the first time it had been posed by someone that was not him as himself.

“That is quiet the question, and one that I have asked myself often, but have yet to actually research.” It was not hard to decipher the obvious lie, but perhaps I am bias, and the Inquisitor caught it; a smile stretching his face to reveal rotten, yellow teeth. No other words were exchanged. The Inquisitor simply walked away, an odd limp tainting what would have otherwise been a Marines step.

The subsequent events, my darling reader, are to follow. Very little about what occurred directly AFTER this odd altercation is irrelevant, so I will skip it. What matters is the occurrences of the following days and months.

As many things, a plan was needed. It had to be laid carefully or all further endeavors would be wasted. I cannot say that I understood the manner in which G constructed his plans, after all he seemed quite confused as to how he was going to manage to pull everything off all at once. There seemed to be little coherence at first, but then he never did cease to surprise me. Being so intelligent as he is, creating an interesting mix of drugs (whose names I couldn’t tell you) was simple. So was picking the correct set of volunteers, victims, that he was have participate in this experience.

Surprisingly, however, they were not the homeless or prostitutes or drug addicts. They were, my lovely reader, much like yourself. Students, everyday people that needed whatever it was that G had offered them in return. Highly unremarkable people selected by an equally unremarkable man. Sad, desperate fools.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“To the point, Mr. Gallagher.” The judge was impatient. She cannot seem to understand the importance of a well told history. How important it is that all details of the events are told correctly. G seems to have noticed this as well and invoked her anger. She’s a plump woman and anger is a look that desperately sours her face into something far more unattractive than it already is. And, dearest reader, might I say that I attempted to set her on fire with my glare?

“Yes, of course. Forgive my rambling.” G’s voice cut through the air like a shard of glass, pointed with anger from being interrupted. Looking closely, I can the thin ring of quivering blue around his blown pupils. A look of rather poor taste, if I might say so.

Forgive me dear reader, but once more I must take you back so that you may understand all circumstances that lead to this point…..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As I was saying, locating simple-minded individuals that would willingly take part in this experiment was no difficult task. Nor was convincing them that everything was safe, that they were in no danger. Pathetic really. But I linger, darling reader.

There was a break of time for preparation. Setting the stage, one could say. A thing of beauty. Long, silver tables stretching the length of the damp room, bolted to the cement floor and adorned with leather straps, IV’s beside them decorated by barbed needles. A truly beautiful sight. From my place in shadows beside him, I can see that G thinks so as well.

Now, darling reader, I must say that the following events make my blood rush just so. They make me salivate and twitch with want and……  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
“Mr. Gallagher! Do not make me remind you again.” I hate this woman. But I suppose that from here, I shall allow G to explain until gorier details are necessary. And believe me, my beloved reader, they will be.

“Yes, right. Forgive me.” G’s voice sounds clipped, and I find it just this side of hilarious. Do try not to judge his putrid storytelling. As I have said, I will intervene should I deem it necessary. R stands stoically as he can, but I can see the perspiration on his brow and the tight hold that he has on his folders. He’s nervous and smells like over-ripe pears. His eyes are locked on the man before him, face paling as he beings to speak once more.

“The drug was of my own design and easy to administer. It is tasteless when ingested and scentless when inhaled. It was easier to get them to drink than inhale something. The chemical compounds of the drug killed two of them, the rest were simply rendered unconscious while it elevated the chemicals in the Amygdala, which is the part of the brain that controls the hormones for the fight or flight reflex….” He’s trailing. I hate it when he trails. It becomes moments of him losing himself to thought and, beloved reader, I am not sure that he has not lost his mind. He appears at this moment like a child. And yet I ramble. It is here that I once again take this story on its intended path, and tell it as it should be told.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a certain pleasure that we all derive from fear. A blood-warming thrill that we can be scared for a moment before laughing it away as though nothing had transpired. The same warmth that we feel when we ourselves have frightened someone for the sake of humor. But there is also the kind of fear that paralyzes. The kind that stops us in our tracks and makes lesser mortals cry. The drug that G administered worked wonders.

Perhaps, however, it worked too well.

I must warn you, precious reader, that what follows is not within the realm of reality. Not as you know it, at least. What transpired were acts of absolute decimation at the hands of a monster. A genius of it’s craft. Bloody, violent.

When the experiment had begun, the simplicity of sleep and I.V. needles and skin. Things start out as many do, ordinary to the point of tears and pathetically predictable. But there always seems to be a calm before the storm, and I am fortunate enough to have been their for the whole of the storm itself. I was in it’s eye.

The night had just fallen, the small window reaching out into the streets from the damp-room allowing me to see how the stars scattered across the sky and the blooded nature of the moon cast a red glow across the world G had created for himself. It had been quiet, until it wasn’t anymore and the sounds of gurgled struggling met the ears of G and myself.  
One of our patients, a thin blonde boy with a smattering of holes in his face, was struggling against his bonds, thrashing around painfully as he appeared to try and scream, but nothing but garbled sounds came out. And so did water. 

Salt, by its scent.

G surged forward, watching intently, eyes wide enough that for a moment I thought they would fall out of his head. The boy continued to struggle and choke, water turning red and gaining the consistency and loose syrup. Looking lower, and my dearest loves look I did, I watched as the boys lower body tore free from it’s upper half; blood and shit and piss spilling across the floor as muscles loosened, giving way after death. The skin separated like wet clay, organs and chunks of flesh falling soddenly to the ground. I heard as much as I saw the spine dislocate and separate from itself, pulling free in a spray of stained white shards and red flesh.

“Fucking Christ.” G sounded like he would be sick, but I could not look away. They boy had long since stopped twitching, and it seemed rather sudden when his lower half was thrown across the room, hitting the wall with a putrid slap; bones breaking on impact and tissues landing on myself and my companion; a startling contrast to my own white hair and skin.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as G moved quickly forward, slipping in the red water on the floor and becoming coated in it. He ignored this and continued his path to the boys side. G appeared now to be unmoved. More fascinated than disgusted by the half of the body that he leaned over, but he would get no closer. Had he, he would have noticed the teeth within the flesh. A shark had been this boys fear. A shark, and being killed by it.

For a moment, I was a shark myself.

I observed G closely after that, noting his confusion and revulsion as the others followed suit in a similar manner. Some died humanly, drowning in their sleep, others freezing to death and then shattering in their beds. One burned and the air had clog with the tacky, bitter scent of burning hair and crisping flesh. Another turned to bone, much resembling myself, before receding to ash. Each a manifestation of absolute fear. Of undeniable terror….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mr. Gallagher. Forgive me if I’m a bit confused, but you expect the court to believe that those kids were killed by some unforeseen force? Like magic? What you are saying is, in all honesty, impossible.” R’s voice breaks my reverie, which I do not mind. The rest of that tale is, loving reader, rather boring. I can see R shaking, and I can see G looking at me from over the Prosecutor's shoulder, stringy hair falling across freckled skin. As though I have an answer for him. There are a few moments of strained silence, ones I revel in because it’s easy to taste the anger and disgust and fear that hangs in the air like humidity.

“I don’t….I know what I saw. I know that I am sane. I don’t care if you believe me.” I can hear the way that his voice is shaking, like he doesn’t believe what he’s saying but refuses to believe that he would be capable of the things that we had witnessed. I could tell that the Jury did not believe it either, and I knew what the verdict would be. Oh dear reader, I knew. I was counting on it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A cell is a lonely place to be. It’s damp and dark and smells of mildew. A pleasing place for someone such as myself, and for someone such as G. I can’t help but smirk as he paces, sweating and muttering to himself. Just so, however, it would only be fair that I put him out of his misery.

“Pacing does not suit you.” He stops and turns, and I let out a huff as he does. There is a distinct look of terror etched into his features. G begins to stammer and stumble, tripping over his words and I roll my eyes and suddenly he loses the ability to make any sound at all.

“You are quite stupid aren’t you? To think that you were capable of doing all of that on your own.” I know how I sound. I know in the look on his face, the rigidity of his body, the fear in the air. I like playing with my food, but I’ve had plenty of time to play with him and, dearest beloved reader, I am bored of playing. It doesn’t take long, and there is no sound to be made. Fear is an easy thing to locate. It has a taste, a smell, a lust all it’s own. G inflates much like a gaudy balloon and claws at his throat, but does not scream; I TOOK that from him, and it isn’t long before his cell is coated in blood and bone and skin.

I know that there is a camera watching, and I know that it will have seen nothing; least of all myself. As far as it, as those watching, are concerned G was there one moment, and everywhere the next. There would be to preamble to be seen. No cause, no murderer. No me. It is easy to hide when you do not wish to be witnessed by undeserving eyes. They will not see what happened, because I do not wish them to. Another thing for which I have complete control.

As I leave that damp, unforgiving cell, bone crunching beneath my feet; blood and gore attempting to stick them to the ground, I cannot help but wish that I had kept him longer. However, this does seem to be a rather fitting end to a rather mediocre life.

I will not tell you who I am. I will not tell you where or how. You already know the answer to that, dearest reader. I, your humble narrator, know who and where you are. Most importantly though, I know your dreams. I know your fears. And I do hope to be seeing you quite soon.

 

 

“I have had my fill of fear. I have stared too long into the abyss, and now the abyss stares back at me” - Rick Yancey

**Author's Note:**

> This work is an original and of my own creation. Inspiration was taken from "A Nightmare On Elm St." and it was written in dedication to the late Wes Craven. Please ask before using any part of this in your own work (should you desire to) or before posting this to another site.


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